


Beautiful Rhythms

by Zedrobber



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Explicit Language, First Time, M/M, McGonagall has Seen Things, Mutual Masturbation, Tagged as underage because no age is specified & they are still at school, Violence, as in a fist fight, blood mention, broom closet sex, handjobs, just could be inferred as such, so it's not UNDERAGE underage, they are both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:41:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23388286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zedrobber/pseuds/Zedrobber
Summary: Harry is having the worst kind of morning, and of COURSE Draco is there to make it even more unbearable, practically begging for a fight. Well, this time, Harry is going to give him one.Short ficlet, mostly an excuse to break my writer's block, honestly. No plot, nothing useful, just some porn and a bit of fisticuffs for your viewing pleasure. :) Hopefully this will loosen the cogs for the actual plotted ones I'm writing.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 8
Kudos: 215





	Beautiful Rhythms

It all started with a fistfight.

Usually, Harry just clenched his fists and gritted his teeth, blunt nails digging into palms, bright points of blessedly grounding pain. Usually, he found the words - thick-tongued, clumsy, molasses through a sieve - to stop it escalating, to keep Malfoy at arm's length. 

_Usually_ , Malfoy had the sense to shut up, to back off when he saw the warning painted black in Harry's eyes. 

Harry was having a particularly bad day. He hadn't slept, the usual nightmares back with predictable vengeance - his parents dying, his friends dying, dark fever-dreams laced with threat and the looming pressure of an oncoming storm. He'd missed breakfast, only managing to snag a piece of cold toast. He'd forgotten to write a heinously dull essay on the uses of some root or the other that he had absolutely no intention of ever remembering again, and he knew Snape would delight in torturing him about it later if he couldn't scribble something at lunch. So he could perhaps be forgiven for being more than a little testy.

"Potter! Oi, Potter!"

Harry groaned internally. Of course. 

_Ignore him_ , the sensible part of him urged. _Keep going._

"Gone deaf, Potter?"

Knuckles itching, spoiling for a fight, Harry stopped. His heart pounded at his ribcage, thunderous and fury-fast, his jaw clenched so tight that he could feel his teeth aching. _Give me an excuse._

"Malfoy. Want something?" he asked, biting back the jagged insults that crowded at his teeth like hoarfrost. Malfoy always seemed to pick his way under Harry's skin. It wasn't that his insults were particularly clever or devastating; there was just something about that arrogant tilt to his chin, the shifting mercury-silver of his eyes, the perpetual curl of his lip and the lean, white-gold brightness of him that made Harry's blood heat and his body thrum with anger.

"From you? Hardly likely, is it." Malfoy lifted his eyebrows at him, making a show of looking him up and down. "Did you forget to brush your hair _entirely_ this morning, Potter, or is it always like that?"

As a matter of fact, Harry _had_ forgotten to brush it - not that it ever made a difference; his hair was untameable, a dark, eternally tousled mess that did as it pleased. 

"Shut up, Malfoy," he said, irritated at the accurate assessment. 

"Where were you at breakfast? I didn't see you with your loser friends."

"Why, did you miss me? Been watching where I go a lot, have you?" 

"Ugh. Of course not. Where were you?"

"In bed," Harry shrugged. That was hardly a revelation. "I slept in."

"Thought the Dementors had finally got you," Malfoy sneered. "Pity."

Harry couldn't suppress the shudder at the thought, ice-water sliding down his spine, a helter-skelter of irrational revulsion.

"You going to faint again?" Malfoy crowed, delighted by how easy this was. By now, a small gathering of curious students had appeared, standing in a loose knot around them. Their fights had clearly become a regular source of entertainment. "Should I run and get your little mudblood friend to help you?"

"Don't _call_ her that!" Harry spat, fists clenched tight at his sides. He took a warning half-step forward, teeth bared, and Malfoy looked surprised for only a moment before he affected a swagger, chin high, eyes flashing. 

"Why not? She _is_ a mudblood - just like your mother."

"I'll _kill_ you-" Harry snarled, feral-rough and vicious. One more lurching step forward and he swung his fist at Malfoy clumsily, feeling his knuckles connect with flesh and bone in a satisfying, visceral _smack_. 

Malfoy stood stock-still for a moment, eyes wide, bottom lip beginning to pool with blood. He raised one pale hand to his mouth, feeling the bruised-red swell of it, the rivulet of scarlet tracing a path down his chin and dripping onto the collar of his shirt. Harry waited, chest heaving, for Malfoy to run wailing for a professor as usual, already trying to cram the seething rage back into the box he constantly struggled to keep it in. 

Malfoy licked his bloody fingers slowly, thoughtfully - _obscenely,_ Harry thought in transfixed fascination, and then he smiled. It was a triumphant, fire-brand smirk of a smile, that of a boy getting _exactly_ what he wanted. 

"I didn't know you had it in you," he said disdainfully. "Of course you'd fight like a Muggle. I should have known."

"That wasn't fighting, Malfoy. I've barely started."

"Go on then," Malfoy said, eyebrows raised incredulously. "Let's see it."

His anger flared bright again, Malfoy's nonchalant arrogance spurring him on. He charged, a bull goaded by the streak of red on Malfoy's lip and the dull pulse in his knuckles. 

This time, Harry’s swinging fist caught Malfoy in the gut, a surprised rush of air forced out of him as he doubled over, gasping and coughing. A hot streak of pure joy sparked through Harry like lightning, blue-bright like a summer storm, and he grinned, more teeth than smile, wolf-sharp and dangerous.

Malfoy spat at the ground, scowling. His eyes were dark with humiliated anger. Harry twisted, breaking his momentum and spinning back towards Malfoy gracelessly, already aiming another hard-knuckled fist towards his face. 

Malfoy was ready for him this time. Harry felt the blow rather than saw it; felt it ricochet through his jaw, blurring his vision for a jolting moment. A few moments later, it began to hurt, blooming through his cheek and his eye sockets in a rush of hot blood. Harry grunted out a surprised noise of pain, arcing out his own fist blindly to try and catch Malfoy, but he had stepped smartly out of Harry’s reach. 

“Is that all you’ve got, Potter?” he mocked, that drawling sneer biting through the ringing fog in Harry’s head and turning it to bright-burning anger again. Harry growled, spitting blood in Malfoy’s direction, and lunged for him. 

The loosely-knotted crowd of students watched in delighted horror as the two of them fought, messy and bloody and without any further words. One of the Muggle-born children started a tentative “Fight! Fight! Fight!” chant that was soon picked up heartily by the other Muggle-borns and finally the students in general.

Finally Harry managed to pin Draco against one of the weatherworn archways, his face pressed to the cold stone, one arm twisted behind him just a little too high to be comfortable. He had a blue-black bruise over his eyes to add to the split lip, and he was sure there were several more brewing across his pale body. He scowled, cheek pressed painfully against the arch, his breathing fast and shallow. Harry could feel the shift of his shoulders with every inhalation, his body held tight against Malfoy to keep him from escaping.

“Done, Malfoy?” he hissed, hot into Draco’s ear. Draco growled in frustration, trying to wriggle himself free and only succeeding in pushing himself backwards against Harry. 

“Ugh, get _off_ me, Potter, you utter tosser _,”_ he snarled, making no real effort to move.

“Make me,” Harry grinned, smug in the knowledge that he was heavier. Draco squirmed back again, and that was when Harry realised, in utterly all-consuming horror, that he was hard, the hot line of his cock pressing against Malfoy’s arse. Draco froze.

“What the _fuck,_ Potter?” he hissed viciously. “How dare you -”

“I promise you this isn’t personal,” Harry muttered.

“It feels pretty personal!”

Harry swore colourfully. “Look, it’s not because of you -”

“Should I be reassured or outraged?” Draco hadn’t moved, still butterfly-pinned between Harry and the wall. 

“ - It’s just because I’m all pushed against you -” Harry plunged on.

“I had noticed.”

“- and the- the heat, or something -”

“Be quiet. Look. We have to move soon. People are looking at us.”

“I am _not_ moving while I’m -”

“Oh, trust me, I am about as interested in people seeing you hard for me as you are. I have a reputation to uphold.”

“What reputation?” Harry spluttered, twisting Draco’s arm in irritation. Draco grunted.

“One where I don’t fraternise with the likes of you.”

“Ugh. What do you suggest, then?”

“Make it look like we’re still fighting. Class starts soon so our bloodthirsty little audience will have to leave in a few minutes."

“Right.” As much as Harry hated to say it, it made sense. He shifted his grip on Draco’s bird-boned wrist and added more tension. Draco made a show of grimacing and pretending to fight back, but his writhing only served to make Harry harder, his cock a constant dull throb of need.

“Shit,” he mumbled against the back of Draco’s neck, Draco shivering at the brush of his lips. 

“What?”

“You’re - making it worse.”

“I can’t help it,” Draco whispered fiercely. “It’s just -” he rolled his hips back against Harry to show that it was the only movement he had from his position, and Harry moaned, low and rough and _too loud, shit, shut up -_

Draco’s breath stilled for a moment, and Harry thought he could almost hear his heartbeat, rabbit - fast and wild against the cage of his ribs. 

“Shit, sorry, I -” Harry said helplessly. 

“Yeah,” Draco said absently, and his breathing restarted with an engine- stutter gasp. There was a pause, and then, slowly and deliberately, Draco rocked his hips back again. Harry bit back the keening whine that threatened to escape his throat.

“God, you’re so hard,” Draco said, half-wonderingly, sounding a little delirious. He shifted experimentally again. 

“If you don’t stop that I’m going to -” Harry muttered, feeling his cheeks flush pink.

“What? You’re going to come all over yourself? How _embarrassing.”_

“Oh, shut up,” he said, closing his eyes and trying to think about literally anything else. “This is bad enough already.”

“You’re so dramatic, Potter.” Draco pushed back against Harry again, smirking as Harry swore violently under his breath. His cock ached, trapped between them, and they fell into an uneasy, taut silence, neither of them daring to speak. Harry tried desperately to think of literally anything else - his homework, Filch’s face, the smell of stinksap.

"They're leaving," Draco breathed finally, risking a half-lidded glance towards the crowd. "I think we bored them." Harry took a few seconds to comprehend him, too busy concentrating on not coming in his trousers because Draco was _still_ rubbing himself against Harry's cock surreptitiously, sweet-burn friction maddening and not nearly enough.

"Oh, thank fuck," Harry groaned, taking a quick look around himself before letting Malfoy go and stepping back hastily. "You utter _arsehole_."

Draco didn't move for a moment, forehead pressed to the archway. Harry saw him take a deep and shaky breath before pushing away from the weathered stone and turning to face him, quicksilver-eyes skittering away from Harry's face to stare at the ground.

He was hard. 

"Oh." Somehow, it hadn't occurred to Harry that Draco might be as affected as he was. "Fuck," he said, eloquently. Draco rolled his eyes and rubbed a hand through his hair with delicate fingers. Harry couldn't tear his gaze away from the outline of Malfoy's cock against his trousers, obscene and thick. Harry's palm itched to touch, to rub his hand across the heat of it, to squeeze and feel the hot throb of desire pulse through it. It was overwhelming and unfamiliar, setting him off-kilter and almost physically reeling, a burning rush of utterly primal arousal licking through him that defied all attempts at control.

"This way," he ordered hoarsely. "Now." He felt himself trembling, poised somewhere squarely between flight or fight even as he led Malfoy through a series of corridors into a disused and empty broom closet, the door barely visible behind a net of cobwebs. He didn't dare look to see if Malfoy was following, too afraid that he wouldn't be.

They crowded themselves into the cupboard and paused, pressed against each other in the narrow space. Harry's heartbeat roared like the ocean in his ears, his breathing ragged, and he could hear that Draco's was gratifyingly similar, hot against his cheek in the dark. 

"Now what, Potter?" he asked, disdain tempered with almost tentative interest. "Or was this the entirety of your plan?"

"Shut up," Harry hissed, and grabbed the back of Draco's neck with bruising fingers. "I don't _know_ , alright? I haven't-"

"Virgin, Potter? How sweet."

Harry growled, embarrassed and furious, and squeezed Draco's neck viciously. 

"What, like you've been fucking the whole of Slytherin?"

"What if I had? Would that make you angry? Oh _please_ tell me it would, you're so -" 

Harry crashed his lips against Draco's, a clumsy, brutal kiss that was more teeth than anything else. It was messy, and almost painful, and _brilliant_ , Harry feeling his chest almost glow with the thrill of it. They broke apart, gasping. Draco's bottom lip had started bleeding a little again. He licked it off thoughtfully, eyeing Harry in the gloom, and for a moment Harry was certain he was going to leave in disgust.

"Typical bloody Gryffindor. No style."

"Sorry-" Harry started automatically, panicking a little now that it was done and couldn't be taken back.

"What?" Draco scowled. "Well, come on. You clearly need the practice. Try again."

Guessing that Harry was going to just stand there and stare, Draco grabbed at Harry's shirt, dragging him in for another kiss. It was more cautious than the first, slow and tentative as they worked it out; how they slotted together, how Draco liked it when Harry scratched blunt nails over the nape of his neck, how it made Harry shudder when Draco licked over Harry's bottom lip. Draco's mouth was coppery-sweet, that taint of blood masking everything else, and Harry didn't care, content to kiss like this forever if it kept making him feel as though he was flying. 

Neither of them could have said, later, who moved first. It happened all at once; hands fumbling with trousers, unwilling to break the kiss for more than a few breathless seconds; Draco's low, needy whine as Harry finally wrapped shaking fingers around his cock and felt Draco's cool grip on his own, firm and sure despite their matching earthquake heartbeats. 

"Fuck," Draco said, hot against Harry's mouth. 

"Yeah," Harry agreed vehemently, unable to think of anything even slightly better to describe this heady, overwhelming flood of sensation.

Their eyes met, blown dark with arousal, and then they were kissing again, angry and fierce and perfect, rutting mindlessly into each other's hands. 

"I'm gonna -" Harry said helplessly, barely a minute later. His face burned, utterly certain Malfoy was going to mock him but unable to hold on any longer.

"Yeah, me too," Draco grunted back instead. "Fuck, like that, Potter. That's good-"

The knowledge that Malfoy was as close as he was, that what he was doing to his cock felt somehow as good as Draco's hand on his own, was all it took. Harry came with savagely blinding force, biting down hard on his knuckles to keep quiet and failing. Draco was only seconds behind him, muttering a string of incoherent filth against Harry's neck. Harry felt the hot, sticky mess coat his fingers, Draco's cock throbbing against his palm, and realised with sudden, hazy clarity, that this was it. Nothing would ever come close to this moment, sweat-slick and sticky in a closet with Draco _fucking_ Malfoy shuddering against him, open and raw and vulnerable. 

"Shit," he said aloud after a pause, unable to articulate the revelation. 

"What?" Draco sighed, pushing himself back reluctantly and fumbling for his wand to perform a quick cleaning spell. "Honestly, if you're regretting this I don't want to know yet.”

“No,” Harry said, half-turning away as they tidied their uniforms. He scrubbed at his hair valiantly and got nowhere, only succeeding in making it look somehow worse. “No, I don’t -I mean, it was -”

“Please don’t embarrass yourself _and_ me by giving me an awkward compliment about a minute’s worth of handjob, Potter. It was hardly earth-shattering.”

“Well, I mean - I hadn’t -” Harry gritted his teeth, furious all over again at Malfoy’s lazy drawl and his mocking way of saying _everything_. That’s how all this had started. “Fine. If that’s all it was. Whatever, Malfoy.”

He shouldered his way roughly past Draco, groping for the door. He was still seething - partially at Draco, the absolute wanker, but also at himself, at his brand-hot anger that flared brightest around Malfoy. If only he could have controlled his reaction, he might not be escaping from a _fucking_ cupboard with his cheeks blazing and his dignity in tatters, for what? A quick handjob? Ugh.

“Wait. Potter.”

“Fuck off.”

“No, just _wait_.”

“What! Why don’t you just go and suck off your _Slytherin_ friends?”

“Ugh, why do you have to make this so difficult? Look. I’m not. I mean. I hadn’t. With anyone, alright?”

“You m-”

“Shut _up.”_

Harry turned back to face Draco, shoulders slumped. “Then what was this.”

“I don’t think we have time to unpack _that_ mess, honestly. I’m especially not going to even think about it in front of you.”

“I want to do it again.” Harry could barely believe he had said it aloud; the words hung between them in the air, gossamer-thin and hopeful. “Whatever it is. And more. I want -”

“Yes, well, enough about what you want,” Draco said, almost faintly. He swallowed, thick and loud in the space between them. “Alright.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sure. Anything.”

Harry grinned, the queasy knot in his chest loosening. “Brilliant.” 

“Honestly, Potter. You sound as though I’d agreed to play Wizard Chess with you, not embark on a furtive and exhaustive tour of every broom closet and disused classroom Hogwarts has to offer. Now let me out. We’re already late for class and you _know_ some little snitch has told Professor Mcgonagall we were fighting before her lesson.”

“Correct, Mr Malfoy.”

“Oh, fuck,” Draco whispered. “It’s McGonagall.”

“Correct again. Your powers of observation are quite remarkable. Your timekeeping, however, leaves a lot to be desired, as does your language. Please come out of that broom closet.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know I’m in here, too,” Harry mouthed.

“I’m afraid I do, Mr Potter. Out!”

They spilled back into the light of the corridor shamefacedly, brushing imagined dust from their clothes. 

“Do I dare ask what you were both doing inside that closet?” McGonagall asked archly.

“Fighting,” Harry replied smartly. Draco nodded along. 

“Fighting indeed,” she replied with only the barest hint of sarcasm. “Well, you do both look a little worse for wear. Perhaps you should visit the infirmary before returning to my classroom, if you would both do me the honour of actually attending school?”

“Yes, Professor,” they chorused dutifully.

“And boys,” she called after them as they started to shuffle towards the hospital wing and Madam Pomfrey’s undoubted ire, “If I have to deal with - whatever this is - again, I will be deducting points, or worse. Do we understand each other?”

“Yes, Professor. Sorry, Professor.”

They waited until she swept out of sight before shooting each other a look of abject, mortified horror. 

“How long do you think she was out there?” Harry asked, glancing over his shoulder furtively to make sure she had really gone. 

“I’m not about to _ask,_ Potter,” Draco grimaced. “Now. Let’s get our story straight before we have to explain this to Pomfrey, agreed?”

“Right. Yeah. I don’t think she’d believe you got a black eye and a split lip by accident, though. And uh, I suppose I should apologise for, you know. The bruises.”

“Honestly, Potter, I’ve been waiting for you to crack for months,” Draco laughed, only half-mocking. “Your self control was bloody infuriating. What happened today?”

“You know,” Harry said, thinking about how utterly terribly his morning had started out. He grinned back at Malfoy, wanting to laugh, wanting to split his chest open from the sheer promise of _something_ wonderful to come. “I had a really shitty morning.”

“How’s your afternoon looking?”

“Yeah. Much better, actually. Maybe even brilliant.”

-

  
  
  
  



End file.
